


we were born twice

by myhandisempty



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, small fics and even smaller plots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of one shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hard to swallow

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly prompt fills posted on tumblr, but some new things, too. Any pairing besides Dean/Roman will be referenced in the chapter summary!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows, in an ambiguous sense, that Leakee fucks other people. Still, it's different. It's not fucking right. (Moxley/Leakee)

They only travel in the same circles occasionally, him and Leakee—Mox doesn’t have a circle so much as a disjointed collection of line segments, and Leakee’s friends are as insufferable as him, most times—and when their eyes met across the crowded bar, there was a warning, there, unmistakable in its intensity. It’s a glint that sparks off Leakee each time they meet unexpectedly, something that will have to be picked apart, later. A reaction depends on so much more than just the ingredients, than the catalyst, after all—it’s also based on entropy, on timing. On the best possible moment, and Mox knows how to spot those a mile away. That time is coming.

He’s busying himself with some pretty little blonde thing, sweet and tired and boring and safe. Her smile is soft where it should be sharp, should bite a little, and Mox already knows he won’t be bringing her home. She gives him careful, closed-mouth kisses, vodka on her lips, and he’s looking for something a little faster, a little more danger.

He backs away to get another beer, a shot of tequila, thinks that maybe anything might feel like a risk with enough alcohol in coursing its way through his bloodstream. That extra two ounces of Dos Manos in, his cheeks start tingling pleasantly, though he’s still not tipsy enough to mess around with the majority of the people here. He waves the bartender down to pour one more glass, and that’s when he sees it. Him. Them.

Leakee has a guy pressed back against a wall, some face Mox vaguely remembers seeing around shitty bars in weeks past, and from the bit of his face Mox can make out, he’s smiling. Hand lingering on the guy’s hip. It’s unmistakable, what’s going on, and the liquid in his stomach churns around.

Leakee is angled away from him, can’t see that he’s watching, and that somehow makes the whole thing worse. He’s used to Leakee as provoking and Leakee as aggravating, and the fact that he’s visibly, handsily flirting with another guy in a way that’s completely unrelated to Mox and his reaction, he’s never really thought about it happening, but seeing it is something sickening. They’re not—they’re not anything, but they’re not nothing, either, and to do this, out in the open, where Mox can see, Leakee is supposed to know, he’s supposed to know better. He’s supposed to know Mox.

He still feels sick, and the warm fire in his stomach is blazing behind his eyes, now, when he storms over. His hand is on Leakee’s arm seconds later, the one that was grabbing at the other guy, pulling him back. “Excuse him, man,” he tells the dude. Short and brunet, darker skin, not the furthest one could find from Mox but not anything like him, either. “He told me to remind him to take his Valtrex. Fuckin’ herpes, y’know, never really goes away.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just walks away, Leakee’s arm caught in a vice grip as he pulls him along. There’re angry words he’s not listening to, that are just passing through air around him, and Mox pushes the front door open, lazy heat from the late summer month hitting him full in the face. There’s an alley, next to the rundown place, the sort of establishment he never thought Leakee would frequent, and he drags them both into it, backs Leakee against the gritty brick wall.

“What. The fuck. Was that,” Leakee asks, less a question and more a demand, and Mox scowls, makes sure Leakee’s eyes are all on him, nowhere else.

“I should ask you the same fuckin’ thing,” he answers, jabbing a finger sharply into Leakee’s chest. “Playing grabass with that dickhead, what the fuck.”

“What gives you any say in what I do?” And that, that’s the fuckin’ question, the one that Mox can’t find the answer for, because he doesn’t but he should because somehow, sometimes, Leakee decides things for him when he’s not even present, and Mox can’t stand the playing field being this unlevel, the disadvantage being his. “I’m here on my time, with my friends, for some fun. Find your own.”

“I just did,” Mox claims, grabbing Leakee by his hair and pulling their mouths together. These lips on him do bite, lessen the sting that’s had a frown pulling at his mouth since he glanced away from the rows of liquor. He leaves one hand twisted in the strands, pulling occasionally, as the other pushes up and under Leakee’s shirt, nails running down the skin there. Leakee shudders and moans into his mouth, but it’s not enough.

He tears his mouth away, pulling at Leakee’s belt single-handedly. Mox gives up and brings the other hand down, making quick work of the buckle, then does the same to himself. “Where did all your _lofty_ standards I’m constantly falling short of go?” The words are spoken into Leakee’s neck, a perfect place to hide his face while they come out. Leakee’s eyes are narrowed at him, full of fire, when he pulls away, and Mox stares back, hoping his are cooler, give less away.

His pants are down around his knees, and Leakee grabs him behind the neck, twists them to press his front into the brick. Mox braces himself against the wall, lower body far enough away that his dick doesn’t get sanded. There’s the tiniest zippered sound of foil tearing open before two fingers are teasing his hole, wet with actual lube. Leakee is the only fucking person in the world who would carry packets of the stuff around, he swears.

“What are you even talking about?” The rough voice is nearly swallowed up by the moan Mox lets out when those fingers push in, two at once. It’s a lot, a lot to go from empty to feeling full so suddenly, and he presses back even more, letting them work him open. He’s glad, glad Leakee can’t see his face right now, especially when he adds a third and twists them just right, because Mox is so keyed up right now he could probably come from just this, if he weren’t in such a hurry to just get fucked right now. To get fucked by Leakee.

“He—ah!—wasn’t even in the same league, I’m actually saving you from terrible—fucking terrible embarrassment when you wake up sober and bright-eyed, you should be thanking me _doubly_ right now.” The fingers are gone then, and he groans, waiting one breath, two, for what’s next. Another crinkling metal sound, the wet roll of a condom, and then. There’s a split second of warning, as Leakee lines himself up behind him, to prepare himself, and then Leakee’s pressing in, slowly, inch by unbearable inch. It burns, makes him cry out, and Moxley’s hands scrabble against the brick, try to find a hold in the mortar between them. His fingertips dig in hard, in a way that means he won’t be able to feel them, tomorrow, but he’s going to be feeling Leakee all week and that more than makes up for it.

There’s a pause, when Leakee’s balls deep and waiting, waiting for Mox to give him the word, where there’s cars driving past in the distance and voices echoing in screaming laughter from blocks away, but the only sound between the two of them is deep, gasping breaths. When Leakee’s hands move from his hips to brace himself against the wall, one covering Mox’s own, and he thinks, maybe. That’s the something the two of them are. An almost, a possibility. Maybe.

“Now, asshole,” he growls, the last syllable a little breathless as Leakee pulls back and pushes forward again. The idea fades with each thrust, too slow and too gentle and infuriating in all the worst ways. It would probably hurt less if Leakee would just wreck him—at least then the sting would distract him from these goddamn mindless thoughts.

“You’re an idiot,” Leakee says, hand drifting back down to grab Mox’s hip tight again. He hopes the fingers squeeze bruises that he can show off, later, so Leakee can’t forget that he was here with Mox, tonight, that no one else’s ass is quite like his. “You’re—you’re so _dumb_ , you’re an idiot.” There’s a kiss pressed to the back of Mox’s head, and his laugh shatters when it leaves his mouth.

“You said that already.” His voice is deep, a little soft; he doesn’t sound like himself, doesn’t feel anything like himself when Leakee grabs his cock from behind and starts stroking, hand barely wet with the remnants of lube and some spit. The heat must be getting to him, a little, or the smell from the dumpster they passed by on the way here, a combination of the two, but Mox lets his head fall back against Leakee’s shoulder, mouth open and gasping at the dual sensations.

Leakee plants another kiss on his temple, nearly misses with the way Mox’s head is jerking around, the force of Leakee’s quickening thrusts and his own twitchiness jostling it around. “Yeah, well, it’s true, asshole,” he hears, nearly whispered, right in his ear, before a hand slaps him upside his head and this time, when Mox laughs, it rings more true.

His orgasm takes him by surprise, painting the wall in front of him with white stripes, tearing a moan out of his throat that sounds a little more like _lay_ — than he’s strictly comfortable with. Another minute, that burning feeling still present through the rough pushes of Leakee’s cock in and out, through the static buzz in his head and his gut, and Leakee bites into his shoulder, smothers some sort of sigh of his own in the t-shirt there.

Leakee moves back, takes the weight off of him after awhile. He has nothing to clean himself up with, so Mox just sort of shakes himself before pulling his clothes back up, buckling his belt around his waist where it immediately slips down from. Leakee has a rougher time of things, nose wrinkled as he fastens his jeans around his own mess, because he cares about shit like that. Doesn’t matter, to Mox; he’s just bailing on his bar tab and heading home. They know he’s good for it, here.

He’s letting Leakee retreat into the silence that’s fallen, again, before he’ll follow—that’s a rule, just in case. They’re in public, and Mox isn’t a person he’ll be seen with, even exiting a trash-filled backroad. Especially exiting a trash-filled backroad, maybe. Leakee stops, suddenly, turns back to face him. “You comin’?”

Mox doesn’t hide his surprise well; he can tell from the way Leakee’s eyes glimmer in the low light, a laugh hidden in there. “Thought we were done, here,” he says, trailing his hand along the brick, in case Leakee somehow forgot they just screwed up against it. Another rule, put in place by Leakee, because there’s an awful fucking lot of knots he’s tied up in something with no strings attached.

Leakee just blinks a couple times, then shrugs with one shoulder. It’s hard to see, with him walking backward, in the dark. “I just willingly fucked in a disgusting alley. Think you’ve corrupted me.”

It’s an olive branch, offered out, and Mox shrugs back in response, moseys on over to where Leakee is standing, now. “Doesn’t seem like such a problem to me, prick.” He bumps his shoulder into Leakee’s, as they walk, and a few blocks pass in silence before he speaks again. “Think I could corrupt you into sucking my dick?”

Leakee pushes him toward the road, where he stumbles over the curb, barely stopping himself from careening into oncoming traffic, the absolute jackass. Those cars were mere yards away. “Don’t push your luck.”


	2. why don't you come on closer please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To his credit, Roman did not expect a strategical discussion to take this sort of turn.

“Dean.”

It’s confused, tired, a little bewildered. “I’m not sure you’re grasping the concept,” Dean tells him, because, well, to be honest, Roman’s really struggling. Most things about Dean are big, excessive, overblown, including his ideas—why react when you can overreact—and this one is no different.

“Tell me again,” he says anyway, like hearing it over it will suddenly make more sense. Immersion therapy works wonders, after all; look at the two of them.

Dean hums a little, the sound vibrating out of his mouth, watches him from the other bed before he sidetracks himself, picking the phone up off its cradle and tossing it between both his hands a few times before setting it back down. Roman cringes, a little, thinks about all the filthy hands that have been on it before, and has to stop before he considers the rest of the room too closely in that matter. He’s not sure if this is Dean being distracted or Dean misdirecting, because Roman, he could have reacted better to the initial proposal, he supposes.

“I think we’ve been going about this the wrong way. Right? Or at least a way that hasn’t been workin’ for shit,” Dean finally says. Roman is relieved, because a silent Dean is vaguely terrifying, that feeling of waiting for lightning to fall but never quite being sure where it will strike, if it’s the next town over or your neighbor’s power will go out or if you’ll be electrocuted yourself. Roman’s been on the receiving end of it a lot, in past times, and on the receiving end of harsh, nonsensical words, and he doesn’t want to be, anymore. More importantly, doesn’t want Dean to be that around him.

“So I figured we’d try something different. You,” He points to Roman, as if there were any other person here he could confuse Dean’s attention with. His fingers swing around, two tapping against his own chest twice. “And me. We’re gonna go on a date. A _pretend_ one,” he stresses, because Roman’s eyes must bug out a little again. He’s making a valiant effort to calm Roman down, which is nice, but Dean’s under the false assumption that it’s the date part that is the problem, here.

“Why? What, uh,” he stutters, Dean’s eyebrows raising in a silent challenge, lips quirking into a smirk, because he can’t be soothing without immediately turning around to contradict it. There’s a faint, buzzing feeling in the base of his skull, partly because of the situation he’s found himself in, but also because in this light Dean’s eyes are really wide and really, really blue. “What purpose does that serve?”

Dean grins at him, again, mischievous and lively, wiggles the fingers of both hands like he’s casting a spell. Roman’s not completely sure that he isn’t. “Misdirection,” he says, looking pleased that Roman’s finally discussing the idea with him. Roman licks his lips and wonders what he’s gotten himself into. “They’re lookin’ this way, we got reinforcements goin’ that way, and we take the king. We score.”

“I think you’re mixing metaphors, there,” Roman points out, because he’s not sure how else to address this whole thing. Dean just scoffs, doesn’t say anything more, yet, but he’s smiling, and that’s the important part. If he can be so calm and cool with this idea, then surely Roman can just suck it up and go along with it, even if it makes no sense to him. It’s just a fake date. With his best friend. Who has really blue eyes and a twisted mouth full of bravado and a body like lightning, broadcasting the desires of the thunder in his heart.

God, look at that, Roman’s turned into such a sap.

“Why does it have to be pretend, though?” he blurts out before he can stop it. He seems to have a gift for always saying the right words, except for when it comes to Dean. When it matters, with Dean, he can only say the worst possible thing in any given moment. Roman cringes at the same time Dean’s eyes go even wider, and he briefly considers lying face down on the scratchy comforter and allowing it to smother him.

“Uh,” Dean says, one hand twisting in the sheets of his own bed. He’s trying really hard to meet Roman’s eyes, but his are staring over Roman’s shoulder instead. They’re both barely glancing at each other. “Um. Did you, like, wanna do that? Is that a thing you would…like?”

Roman finally faces him fully, gaping a little, because he’s not sure what Dean’s been watching, but it obviously hasn’t been Roman, who is more than a little stupid over Dean and has been for quite some time. He just—kind of assumed Dean knew, and didn’t want to let him down too hard. Now that he thinks about it, though, Dean wouldn’t have let the opportunity to mention it pass him by. It’s something Roman lo—it’s something Roman likes a whole lot about him, when it’s not embarrassing as hell. “I mean, I know you wouldn’t want to, so it’s fine. Pretend is…pretend is good.” Yeah, it is, because tonight Roman is playing the role of the infatuated best friend and wants to ignore that he will be for the rest of the foreseeable future.

There’s a long pause, and Roman thinks this whole conversation is over, that maybe he can pull the covers over himself, get lost in the sheets and never come back up. Dean shatters the silence though, a small mutter that Roman knows was still meant for him to hear. “I mean, wouldn’t have to pretend if it was real.”

There’s a lot of tension in the air. Roman can hardly breathe around it, or around his heart beating in his throat. So he does the best he can to diffuse it. “Don’t know that you could handle a real date with me.”

Dean’s eyes finally snap to his, a frown tugging at his lips. “Fuck you,” he says, the way Roman likes best, not true anger but definitely incendiary, heat behind it. “Can handle anything you can dish out, _pal_.”

And maybe it’s because Roman’s just been noticing his mouth a lot more, tonight, or because he’s never been the greatest at challenging Dean with words, or maybe it’s for no reason at all other than he just wants to, but he stands up from his bed to close the distance between them, hands bracing himself on the mattress at either side of Dean’s thighs, and presses their lips together.

Dean moves his against him, a tongue carefully poking at the seam of Roman’s mouth, but they’re throwing caution to the wind tonight. He opens his mouth and presses forward, bringing their upper bodies closer together. It’s unhurried, not exactly comfortable or familiar but it _is_ , at the same time, and it’s building, that buzzing hiding in the back of his brain increasing, vibrating faster and faster until something ignites, smoldering between them.

Fingers grab hold of his shirt, pulls him forward onto the bed, on top of Dean, before they roll to the side, finding themselves on an equal level, and Roman finally has to break away to breathe. Suffocating doesn’t seem like such a great idea, anymore, not if he has this to look forward to.

“Told you,” Dean is mumbling against the corner of his mouth, chasing after his lips again, and Roman has to suck in an entire lungful of air to keep from crushing him to his chest. Dean speaks right into his mouth, and Roman thinks he would breathe his words in, too, if he could. “Got this, I got you.”

He presses a couple more chaste kisses to Roman’s lips, then taps the top of his forehead against Roman’s in a soft headbutt. Roman plants a kiss of his own to that very spot, and lays there, taking in the moment, Dean happy just looking back at him.


	3. i'll use you as a focal point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> safety, noun. The condition of being protected from or unlikely to cause danger, risk, or injury. See also: freedom, security, assurance, invulnerability, shelter.
> 
> nsfw

Falling into bed with Roman is a little different every time — and Dean is well acquainted with that by now, the falling, wishes there would come a point when he reaches the bottom, could say he’s _fallen_ — but the nets of Roman’s arms are always there, waiting to catch him.

Maybe that’s why Dean feels the highest when he’s riding Roman, hands on his chest to balance, center himself. It feels more like flying, Roman watching him through heavy-lidded eyes, squeezing bruises into his hips, and in these moments Dean doesn’t have to worry about the journey, about a destination he may never reach. It’s just the two of them together, the rest of the world on the outside, like it always is, now, the way it always should be.

There’s something reassuring about looking down at Roman, knowing they are on even ground, when they’re here. Dean rolls his hips in a particularly satisfying manner, and Roman puffs out a breath, the contraction of his rib cage tangible beneath Dean’s outstretched fingers. “You’re too much,” he tells Roman on an exhale, watching the light from the lamp in the corner behind him appear between Dean’s moving shadow to dance in the strands of his hair — it’s not truly black, but a deep, dark brown, and Dean can’t help but be a little relieved, by that, because there isn’t much absent or lacking in Roman, least of all color and warmth. The words just slip out. Dean has a flimsy filter at best, and Roman doesn’t appreciate them, he knows; thinks it’s just another way that Dean cuts himself down, like he doesn’t deserve Roman, but that’s neither here nor there, not for Dean to decide. He doesn’t need Roman as ammo if he wants to open fire on himself. Wouldn’t do that to him, anyway.

But he just grins back, up at Dean, understands the thought behind the words. Roman runs a hand over his thigh, the thick muscles that, as he’s pointed out before, are a little too big for the rest of Dean’s body, and Dean laughs in response at the private joke. He folds himself over to taste the side of Roman’s neck, the tangy salt of his skin, but Roman intercepts him, twists his head to capture Dean’s lips against his instead.

Everything feels like _more_ , around him, the rough drag of cheap sheets against his shins, the cool of the room’s air hitting the small of his back, the sweat slick slide of Roman’s skin under his palms, and Dean likes that best about kissing Roman, how it grounds him in his body, keeps him from drifting away in the wind. Roman grabs his hips in a strong grip, fingers wrapping around to glide across the sides of his back, moans into his mouth, and Dean likes to think he can do the opposite for Roman, pull more out of him than anyone else can.

He pulls away when Roman’s breathing becomes too labored, Dean heavy on top of him. That’s the thing about support; Dean knows that Roman won’t buckle under the pressure, but he refuses to pile on more than what’s necessary and watch him strain under the load. He settles his weight back onto his legs, driving Roman deeper in the process, and they both groan at the sensation.

Dean continues the rise and fall of his hips, picking up speed, chasing his satisfaction now that it’s in sight, once he’s sure that Roman is right there with him. His hand trails down to wrap around his own cock, stroking slower than what he wants because he’s well aware of what the sight does to Roman. Roman, in turn, lets his head fall back with a grunt before he snaps it up again, unwilling to miss another second of the show Dean’s putting on, and with good reason. His hands tighten on Dean, help him to move faster, and he lets out a soft, shaky “Ah…” that Dean feels in his chest as much as in the waves of pleasure in his stomach.

He feels all-powerful, here, controlling the pace and keeping Roman’s eyes locked on him, and Roman’s expression, the intensity of the look on his face is—there is not a single thing that can touch him, in this moment, not one thing that could knock him down when Roman looks at him as if the sight of Dean is the most incredible thing he’s ever seen, because Dean trusts that, believes him.

He digs the fingers of his left hand into the flesh of Roman’s arm, grasps it the same way Roman is holding him, a silent _I’m here_ , _look at this_ , _look at us_ , the very thing Roman does for him so often. The two of them don’t share many words out loud, during sex, or otherwise, for that matter — Dean is in tune with the emotions in the lines of Roman’s body, in the skin of Roman’s hand, much better.

He bites his tongue when he comes, choked sound escaping his mouth, knees clamping tight around Roman’s waist. Roman stiffens, says, “Oh god, Dean—” in a shocked, reverent tone, eyes wide and glazed, and Dean is reassured that he does understand what Roman saw in him, before, because he sees it now, Roman letting go and coming underneath him the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, every time.

He angles his body into Roman’s side, after, watching drowsily as Roman cleans himself up (after he’s done the same for Dean, of course; it’s taken a long time to push the weird feeling about that away, but it’s also just so Roman that he can’t imagine it being different). “You properly entertained for tonight?” he questions when he’s done, like Dean had asked for this. And maybe he did, through his hands and his lips, and Roman’s always been more than willing to give.

“You better fuckin’ believe it,” he says, sighing deeply, a satisfied sound that Roman smiles at before it catches on whatever sharp thoughts are rolling around in his head. Dean sighs again, though it sounds different this time, poking a toe into Roman’s leg to keep his attention.

He doesn’t need to ask. “Thought you might want to go out, find some trouble.” And Dean doesn’t hate this, can’t hate anything about Roman, even if he tried, but it’s a close thing.

Roman could stand to be told he’s too much a bit more often. It’s better than him believing he’s not enough.

“I like this,” he says, wrapping strands of Roman’s hair around his finger while it’s in front of him, while he can. “Quiet is nice. Peaceful. Stable.” He tries to choose good words, words that have a nice sound to him, because he knows what word Roman is thinking and he wants to help him replace it.

“You know a lot about stability?” Roman asks, wry twist to his smile. It’s partly a joke and mostly not, but Dean huffs out short laughter anyway because once the words leave his mouth the smile remains but Roman looks like he can’t breathe.

“Nope,” he says, moving his hand down to wrap around the triangles covering Roman’s wrist. “Never really felt it, before now. ‘S how I know it’s worth having.”

The smile falls from Roman’s face. His eyes are wide and the light is playing with them, again, melted steel in that grey gaze.

“Dean.”

And Dean could be heartfelt, could voice out loud how he feels he was supposed to be something for Roman other than what he is, but that will do nothing other than make the both of them miserable and they both know it already, anyway. Instead, he turns on his side, picks up Roman’s arm and drapes it over himself. He always gives off so much heat, Roman, while Dean is constantly shaking and shivering along with the other twitching movements he can’t always stop. The arm tightens around him immediately, and. Dean likes this best about Roman, the way he feels held together, never caged in.

Roman leans over and presses a kiss to Dean’s nose, laughs when he pulls back because Dean can feel his own eyes crossing to gaze at the spot. Dean scowls back at him, just for the principle of the matter, and moves in closer until Roman brings the other arm around, joining them together around his back. He falls asleep like that, head pressed against the warmth of Roman’s chest, listening for each steady beat of his heart.


	4. our hearts are a herd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Dean speak a lot of different languagues.

Roman likes fighting beside Dean. He likes watching Dean cause chaos and seeing Dean at what is probably his happiest and, selfishly, most of all, he likes Dean in his corner.

That’s where he was, tonight, not inside the ring but out of it, running interference once the DQ was called for, and there’s always something a little more beautiful about Dean letting loose. He’s not one for standing idly by, ever, and Roman prefers him standing on the ropes, bouncing and taunting and movement.

It’s times like these the two of them are at their best — fire and steel, the grit and unyielding determination of the proverbial unstoppable force and immovable object — but the lights, the eyes, they all look down on something larger than life, in the ring; they’re bound to catch the worst of them, as well.  
  
Roman is cradling one arm to his chest, having landed on it awkwardly, before, and Dean reaches a hand out, open palm, the lightest pressure imaginable against his shoulder when it gives a single tap. His hands feel softer, the calloused skin rubbed down to something more raw in these moments, and Roman wishes it was that thought that drove his actions rather than the steady, headstrong buzz of the match he’s just finished. As it is, his response is immediate, his fist knocking harshly into the firm muscle of Dean’s chest with frustration once, twice. His eyes don’t need to be trained on Dean’s face to feel how tightly his teeth want to clench; the rapid jabs of a fist against his shoulder tell him all he needs to know, and he tilts his head back, makes it clear, message received.

For as much as he appreciates contact between them, the bridges they’ve learned to use their bodies to build between their words, there are some touches they both reject. Dean being gentle, concerned, is one thing, but Roman is real under his hands in a way he isn’t anywhere else, and sometimes that stings more than anything, that reminder of his own vulnerability.

Roman likes fighting beside Dean. What he doesn’t like is fighting _with_ him. He’s not quite sure that’s what this is, yet, but he wants to take it back.

Dean still walks beside him down the ramp, but there’s a gap left between them, wider and more meaningful than that foot of open air. Roman spent a long time, before, molding himself to fit Dean, smoothing his curves around edges until he realized that, to Dean, it doesn’t matter what shape he’s in. But Roman’s body still curls to leave a space for his, and there’s a physical ache when Dean doesn’t fill it as soon as they’re alone.

This is a time when there would normally be a lot of words shared between them, where they would spill out of Dean as if he’s been trying to hold them back for far too long, and Roman will play the game of separating the unimportant ones from the ones that matter. Dean’s words always mean something — he’s a little too honest for anything to be a complete feint — and it’s not always what you’d expect.

But what there is a lot of is silence after Dean shoves the door of their own room open, shoulder checks it to fling wide. Roman likes that, too, the way Dean throws himself, headlong, into anything and everything, but wishes he would show a little more care for his body. Neither of them are fragile, but they’re not getting any younger.

Dean slides onto one of the metal folding chairs, swinging one leg over to straddle it, backwards, arms crossed over the back and his head resting on top of them. His jaw is working furiously, clenching repeatedly, his lips pulling back tightly every few seconds, that smile that looks more like broken glass ready to press its way under skin, but Dean’s eyes are soft when they glance at Roman, gentle and questioning.

And Roman, he takes his good arm — the stronger one, the one he drives into the mat and into opponents’ faces and then watches as they collapse — and places it on his head. He ruffles hair, the slightest bit, but mostly just lets it sit there, resting where he knows only he is allowed to touch. It’s an apology and a thank you, all at the same time, and a few other things that he normally doesn’t give voice to, and Dean is still for long seconds in a way he isn’t anywhere else, before he closes his eyes and sighs, twists his neck and plants wet lips just above Roman’s glove, on the inside of his wrist.

—

There’s something about the dismal lighting in late night hotel rooms that is the most soothing thing, and Roman wonders if that isn’t because he can’t help but associate it with Dean, with his presence and his amusement, both in person and over the phone, when they’re not with each other. He knows Dean would laugh at him if he said a word about it, because Dean doesn’t see that reflected in others, that aura of calm that he affects Roman with, and Roman, horribly, selfishly loves that, that he’s the only one who gets to feel these things. He wants to be an exception for Dean in a lot of ways.

Dean is pacing the floor, unhurriedly, not from anxiety but from lack of anything to do with the energy in his legs, and that’s comforting, too, the cadence of each footfall against the carpet something familiar. Every time he passes the desk he picks something else up, in his hands, turning it over a few times before setting it elsewhere once he loses interest. His hand grasps for something else without looking, this time, but there’s nothing left to grab; it’s all sitting on the television stand or the foot of the bed, and Roman hisses out a laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he stops, half confusion and half indignation that the surface not simply produce more objects for him to misplace.

His eyes snap to Roman, take him in, the absence of a book or phone or anything on the TV, and he purses his lips, considering. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he challenges, chest puffed out and chin raised high. This is the best type of Dean, he privately thinks, the one that makes Roman want to kiss him until he runs out of breath, and keep going even after that, hold him close to his chest and never let go.

“A big dork,” he responds, trying not to make it sound as breathless as he feels. He fails, of course, apparent in the way Dean’s answering tilt of his head looks a little knowing. And it’s not that Roman’s embarrassed — god, he’d never be ashamed of loving Dean in any capacity, especially when no one else seems able to get it right — but he does worry, sometimes, that it’s a force a little too big in his chest, that someday Dean will have to choose whether to run away or be crushed under the weight.

Dean scoffs at him, crosses his arms and breaks the tension apart before Roman can build it into something unnecessary and overshadowing. “Who even uses that word?” he teases, voice a little harsh but Roman knows how he means it, anyway. “No one uses that word. That’s a middle-aged dad word. Fuckin’ old man.”

And if Roman’s gonna take offense, he’s going to have to try a little harder than that. “Well, I’m kind of a middle-aged dad, and you _are_ one,” he smiles back. “You’re also kind of my favorite person, if you didn’t already know.” Dean’s eyes soften a little, mouth dropping into a perfect ‘o’ shape before he recovers a bit.

“You’re bein’ awfully flowery,” Dean says, eyes narrowing again, but the effect is lost with the smile that’s tugging at the corner of his lips. “All chocolate hearts and shit. Next thing I know, you’re gonna be speakin’ French at me.”

“Bonjour,” Roman grins, forcing the word out through a chuckle. Dean groans, then scowls back. There’s a short pause, and Roman tilts his head, debating, taking stock of his own aches and pains and considering the ones that must be mirrored in Dean’s body before he says the next words. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

The accent is nonexistent, his pronunciation, in all likelihood, atrocious, but Dean’s nose wrinkles, eyebrows knitting together. “Wait, doesn’t that—”

Roman’s already stripping off his shirt, though, and Dean growls under his breath, hops up onto the bed next to him, hands halfway to Roman’s body before he lands. “Now you’re talkin’ my language.”

—

The only thing better than fighting beside Dean is winning beside Dean. It’s been a long time since the two of them have gotten to do that, consistently, and Roman is flying high with it, with the knowledge that they’ve overcome insurmountable odds before, and they still continue to.

Dean is handsome, in battle, in the way he moves and twists and glides around the ring, but in victory he’s beautiful, thundering and radiant and difficult to look at. Roman does look at him, though, nowhere else, because he can’t tear his eyes away. His hands, either; they keep tapping against Dean’s back or slinging themselves across Dean’s shoulders as if some of what he is will rub off on Roman, when it’s already more than enough to just bask in the glow.

He can’t get his fill of it, of Dean confident and standing tall, and this time, when they walk to the back, Dean’s shoulder bumps against his and his hand tangles with Roman’s and when they’re alone he tries to spin in a circle, still grasping him tightly, and Roman spins with him, doesn’t allow that hold to break.

_Look at you_ , he nearly says, because how anyone couldn’t is unfathomable, it’s impossible, standing so close to something so vibrant, and he wonders if Dean knows it, if he understands. Dean, for his part, finally looks back at Roman, and when he grabs hair still soaked with water and sweat and reels Roman in, he’s laughing into Roman’s mouth.

“We won,” he says, not quite tearing his mouth away from Roman’s, and Roman feels like his knees are going to give out, the way he can feel the words in the drag of Dean’s lips more than he can hear them. “Knew we would, I knew it, but we did, didn’t we?” He kisses Roman again, and there is so much in Roman’s chest that he thinks it may be bursting out and into his throat, starting to leak out of the corners of his eyes. “We won.”

He grabs Dean’s hand, again, backs up and spins him around once more, just watching him this time, and Dean laughs, again, the noise shaking something in Roman’s bones. “Yeah, we did.”


	5. say you'll come in soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Roman stops to think about how quickly things are changing, he'll give himself whiplash. Of course, that's just what he does.

“It’s bullshit,” Dean says from his perch on the hotel room’s desk, feet dangling inches from the floor

(“I see better from over here,” he’d said when Roman questioned it, not so much out loud than through the turn of his head and the exact angle of his eyebrow, though the only thing to see from over there is Roman on the bed, and it’s like everything else about Dean, really: makes sense even when it doesn’t.)

The words are conversational, calm. Roman doesn’t need to glance over to make sure. Dean doesn’t do a lot of lying, with his voice or his face or his body, even when he might be better off concealing a thing or two. He wears a lot of things close to the surface, shows glimpses of them each time it’s disturbed.

Dean doesn’t lie to him, and he’s glad that this isn’t one, either, is happy for smooth sailing, when it comes. Everyone has days when the tide is high and when it’s low, and you can’t always tell the difference just by looking. Roman is used to, doesn’t mind, weathering the storms, but he likes when being around Dean doesn’t feel like water in his lungs, doesn’t remind him of how he’s been swimming since birth.

“What is?” he asks, setting his book down. It’s not because he needs the answer. He already knows what’s on Dean’s mind, knows Dean would keep talking if there were only the wall here to absorb it, just so he doesn’t have to hold it all in, but it’s easier to bounce thoughts off of another human being and he doesn’t want Dean to ever feel like he’s not being listened to, like he’s not being heard.

“Just thought it would feel different.” Better. He doesn’t say it, but that’s another thing that Roman sees through the ripples. He doesn’t ask for his opinion on the matter, and Roman doesn’t offer it, either. Dean has already hit the nail on the head, and there’s little he can add that would be meaningful. It should feel different. It doesn’t. That’s all there is to it.

Roman has spent a lot of time wishing that things were different, has spent a lot of time asking to have more forgiveness in his heart. It is what it is, however; he’s the person he’s become, for better or worse, and so is everyone else. That’s been difficult to come to terms with, but ignoring it doesn’t bring the past back, doesn’t erase the time between then and now, and, looking at Dean, at the space they’ve learned to occupy together but separately, that’s not something he would want, anyway.

Roman tries to focus on the concrete, on knowing what he can and can’t change, on always giving one hundred and ten percent but saving the fight for the battles that mean the most, but Dean spends a lot of time on the hypothetical, on what he could do, what he should have done, what others should have done. He expects the worst, but is always, always chasing after the best, and that’s as inspiring as it is infuriating.

Dean doesn’t know how to choose his battles — he’s always picked them all.

Dean is staring a hole in a spot on the carpet, fingers wrapped tight around the edge of the desktop. “Yeah, I know,” Roman agrees, hoping that can be the end of this. Dean leaves in the morning, heading out early to join up with the other tour, and Roman would prefer it if his mind weren’t already there. “Come over here, you’re thinking too damn loud.”

He’s slow to move, face twisted in a grimace at the creak of achy joints. The European tours are hard on everyone, and Dean’s been favoring his bad shoulder again, though Roman’s not sure he even realizes. That arm presses closer to his body, as he walks over, lethargic and heavy-eyed, slumping to take a seat again and scooting back on the bed to join Roman. “Really one to talk,” Dean mutters, eyes closing as soon as his head hits the pillow. He’s been up since four this morning — Roman heard him get out of bed, trudge across the room, in the last hotel, and tomorrow there will be a new city, a new hotel, again, but no Dean — so it’s not surprising, but Roman can’t decide whether to roll his eyes or use them to glare when Dean so blatantly disregards his body’s needs. “Got the loudest thoughts in the world.”

And that’s fair, maybe, that point, but they haven’t been talking about Roman all night, and they’re certainly not going to start now, not when it seems like there’s just been a change in the wind. Instead, Roman just watches the silent, steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest, wonders what’s going on inside. He still feels useless, at moments like these — times when Dean’s silence isn’t calm, when it builds into something ready to crest and spill out onto the shore — like his entire body has suddenly become an alien thing and he doesn’t know what it usually does. But it’s not Dean’s responsibility to lead Roman through, to hold his hand just so he knows how to hold Dean’s, so he reaches out to close the distance between them right before Dean grabs him around the wrist.

“See?” he says, cracking one eye open to peek over at Roman, smile just starting to curve across his lips. “Hear you comin’ a mile away.” And it’s only a few days, they’ll see each other in Manchester on Monday, but, god, he doesn’t want Dean to go.

“This is big,” Roman tells him, paying close attention to the way Dean’s fingers feel wrapped around his wrist so it’s not quite as glaringly obvious when that small grin falters. He wasn’t going to talk about it, was hoping instead to give himself one last memory of Dean wrapped up in his arms to last him through the weekend, but his brain is caught up in it now and doing things without his consent. Dean shifts and releases his arm, turning on his side.

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, somber for a split second before that smile returns, wider and brighter. Even laying here in bed, dead tired, his body is thrumming with electricity. Roman wonders if he touched Dean now, if it would shock him, just like it always does, that thrill of being the only one to get these moments. “One of us is gonna be the new champ, you know that?”

It feels, all at once, like Roman’s been pushed under the surface, coughing and sputtering. The thought isn’t new, to him, danced around the edges of every interaction between them for the first half of the year, but it’s crushing at the same time, a lot of pressure he wasn’t expecting. “One of us? You don’t even know who’s in the tournament.”

Dean looks at him with that slant of his eyes, the one he reserves for when he thinks Roman is being particularly obtuse. It still warms something in the pit of Roman’s stomach, even as he rolls his eyes. Hanging around Dean has made him a fucking weirdo, and he’s not even upset about it. “Obviously you. Even Trips can’t come up with a good enough excuse to keep the number one contender out. And, consider the playing field. ‘F I’m not there, who else’re they gonna stick in my spot? Never mind that I’d just throw enough shit around til they give it to me. I’m real good at makin’ noise.” He shrugs. “After that it’s just common sense, man. Who else can touch us? You and me. We’re the best here.”

And Roman, he tries to keep his ego under check, for the most part, but privately, he agrees with Dean. There are other people in the company, others that could provide a challenge, but on a good day Roman knows he can drop just about anyone where they stand, and he would never count Dean out, thinks he’s more dangerous than anyone.

“You gonna take it easy on my arm, at least?” Roman asks him, reaching over to snap off the light. Bad timing, when he thinks about it, eyes adjusting to the dark. He’s missing things in Dean’s face, things that help him in moments like this. Dean doesn’t lie to him, but that doesn’t mean his words are the whole truth. There’s a lot you have to figure out for yourself, and there’s still so much that Roman doesn’t know, places where he can’t see through to the bottom.

He knows Dean is grinning, though, can just barely see the white of his teeth, make out the slightly crooked one right in front. “Won’t make any promises I can’t keep, old man,” he says, the hint of a laugh, there, and someday they’re going to have a talk about how Dean likes to pull that out as his go-to insult, especially when Roman’s not even a year his elder. “Don’t have it wrapped, and we’ll see.”

And maybe it’s the weak part of Roman, the part that draws lines in the sand that he knows he won’t cross, but something makes him a little sick, talking about targeting injured body parts and the casualness that Dean has about it. That everyone else probably does, too. It’s just another advantage, something to gain traction with, but he thinks of anyone smashing Dean’s shoulder into the turnbuckle over and over and nearly cries.

“It’ll never be you against me, not in the final,” he says instead, voice trying to stick in his mouth as he speaks. The lines that are coming into focus as Dean’s eyebrows pull tight, and he hums low in his throat, an apology. It’s not his fault, though, that war is written in his bones, that battle flows under his skin, over the tightly strung muscles that are always, always moving, just as it’s not Roman’s; it’s not anything at all to be sorry for. “They’ll never let it happen, they’re gonna stack the deck so that they have a chance of putting whoever they choose as their guy in position.” And it’s something of a relief, that thought — though he doesn’t want Dean to see his shoulders relax — because as much as Roman wants the title, as much as he’d like to see Dean carry it, again, that’s something that shouldn’t feel different, but does.

“Then we’ll meet earlier, and one of us will go on. Either way, one of us wins.” Dean’s face has moved closer, in the dark, and his hand presses against Roman’s chest. Roman doesn’t want the weight of it to change one bit. Another grin, and then, “And, I dunno, you look pretty good underneath me.”

Roman chuckles, just as Dean’s hand drops. “Those are fighting words.”

“Only kind I know,” Dean agrees, resettling himself into the sheets once more.

And it’s not that it’s a lie, that his eyes don’t match the words coming out of his mouth, or that Roman doesn’t agree, thinks he’s wrong, because it isn’t, and he’s not: it’s that fighting is more than swinging wildly, than throwing hit after hit and hoping one lands; it’s back and forth, give and take. It’s the tide moving in and out and it’s the slack, the space between the waves, the time it takes to recover and turn everything around.

And maybe it’s okay that they’re not pleased, that it doesn’t feel better, that they both chase after a sense of retribution that might never come. Maybe it’s okay that Dean not get too comfortable right where he is, that he drags Roman along. Because Dean is never the same, each time Roman looks at him, constantly drifting and dynamic, and that’s the kind of change Roman thinks he can find it in him to live with.


	6. space takes violent things and makes them kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman may or may not be the more grounded of the two of them, but every once in awhile it's him reminding Dean to look skyward.
> 
> (takes place before royal rumble 2016 because i forgot to post it then)

It’s twelve past eleven and the only lights on the freeway are the ones shining from the headlamps of their car. Heated air is blowing his hair back and it’s silent apart from the rustling of the fan and the purr of the rental around them and Dean’s lip is bloody, again — the first time earlier tonight from a hard right courtesy of Owens, splitting the skin wide, and he's reopened the cut, now, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches Roman out of the corner of his eye.

Roman is the type of person who silently commands attention. Always has been. Heads swivel toward him every time he walks into a room, and rarely do they look away again until he leaves. It's nothing Roman's ever asked for, but it's something that he gets — that he both receives and understands — all the same, and Dean cannot imagine ever being that quietly accepting of anything, let alone such an annoying state of being.

Dean’s always tried to err on the side of giving him less than he's earned, than he's deserved. Too long ago to matter, it was out of spite, and those thoughts have a way of lingering, even now. 

Dean has no apology to give — no words to voice one, no expectation of one to meet — because that's not who he’s ever been nor the person he has ever pretended to be. Still, he tries to let the fact that his eyes often pass over Roman quickly read heavy with other implications, the dismissive air absent altogether. 

Now, though, he can do nothing but notice. Roman's holding the title over his lap, palm resting over the gemstones on the large W. His posture is casual enough, but his back is just a little too straight and his arm is just a little too tense and his eyes are wary as he stares off to the side, out the window, as if he’s worried someone will be pulling the belt out of his hands already. He’s also been uncharacteristically quiet, not batting an eye when Dean had accidentally-on-purpose taken 37 out of town instead of 35. “Don't worry, man, gotta shortcut in mind,” he'd said, despite the fact that they both know these roads well enough to realize he'd just added about forty-five minutes to their travel time. But it's a still, quiet night and both of them are dead tired in a way that leaves little room for sleep and while long drives still set Dean’s teeth on edge, he hates them a little less with Roman riding shotgun.

Personal growth, he tells himself. 

“See anything interesting?” Roman is watching endless miles of desert fly past them in the dark. It's not a boring sight, by any means, but the tan-brown sand and rocks, the arid heat, are much more familiar and comforting to Dean than they'll ever be to Roman. Dean sometimes wonders, in this vast, waterless expanse, if Roman doesn't ever feel like he's just going to dry up.

“Stars look nice, tonight,” is his response. Growing up in the city, Dean truthfully doesn't have much experience with stars and when they look their best and when they don't, and he's never really had much of the patience it takes to sit and watch them to learn. He bends over slightly to look up through the windshield, anyway, as if he could tell the difference.

“Yeah? Recognize any?” His nose wrinkles and he keeps glancing in case something clicks with him until Roman taps a fist against his shoulder, pushes him back in the seat a little bit. Roman acts like Dean is the most unsafe driver he’s ever ridden with, but the man has willingly traveled with Cesaro, so Dean is calling bullshit on that. Just because Dean prefers to sit slouched in his seat, one hand loosely gripping the wheel, and Roman’s more of a ten and two kinda guy, doesn’t make him any worse at it. He twists the wheel back and forth a couple times, fumbling with it as if he could lose control, and Roman doesn’t laugh but he does slug Dean in the arm again with a smile and heavy lines under his eyes, and Dean’s heart beats in his throat for a second or two. The weight of Roman’s hand against him feels more dangerous than the tires spinning on the pavement.

“Nah, don’t know that much about them. Just tryin’ to find a good one to wish on.”

Dean smiles half-heartedly, at that — seems the only way he’s been able to do anything, recently, is with half a heart, the other part too occupied with things that he’s been told not to concern himself with, but Jesus Christ, Roman, he’s concerned anyway —  “Aren’t you s’posed to, like, wish on the shooting ones or somethin’? Doin’ it all wrong, man.”

“Maybe.” Roman shrugs with one shoulder — a half, as well, if Dean is then Roman will be, too — and Dean feels like it’s his job to fill the silence, tonight, but before he can Roman is talking again. “Some things, though, are worth wishing on stars for.”

Dean chuckles, a little huff of air that Roman echoes, and wonders what Roman is planning on wishing. He knows what he would ask for, in his position, but they’re two different people and though Dean sometimes likes to try, he can’t often read Roman’s mind. He’s about to try to alleviate his curiosity and just ask, already expecting a grin and an answer like “Can’t tell, man, or it won’t come true,” — would anyone ever believe just how much of their friendship is him putting up with Roman’s childish requests and not the other way around — but again, Roman offers without any prompting, “Some people are worth wishing on stars for.”

Dean sort of side eyes him, the implication not missed. The scenery is flying past outside the window but Roman is the only thing in his sight, looking back at him. Dean thinks there’s something he should be saying, to that, but nothing comes to mind except the word  _ don’t _ , and he’s pretty sure that’s not right, either.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Roman shifts uncomfortably, a role that usually belongs to Dean when they’re speeding down dark washed roads. He can feel the roll of Roman’s shoulders in the stiff joints of his own. “I’m used to being the one feeling like I’m staring at the sun.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me the sun.” It comes out slightly more mumbled, slightly more embarrassed — or bitter, he’s not sure — than Dean means it to, fingers clenching around the steering wheel tight enough to ache, the strain of rapidly tiring muscles traveling up his forearms. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying any more. It’s either a joke or it wasn’t, and neither sits quite right with him.

Roman blinks, a smile on his face. “Why not? Could get a lot more sappy than that.” He’s pushing, more than he normally does — Roman so often softens himself, retreats at least a bit soon after he detects the slightest hint of discomfort from Dean due to something he did, that it’s a little harrowing, a pit in his gut, when he doesn’t give.

That’s probably unfair, asking Roman to always be the one pulling away rather than demanding Dean come closer. But, they know each other’s boundaries better than anyone, and Dean can’t say that he’s not already ten times softer around Roman than anywhere or anyone else.

Dean grins at him, little humor in it, the tight pull of his lip causing a new drop of red to well up before he gently licks it away. Tastes a tiny bit of iron. He’s never enjoyed the flavor, but, better his blood than most everyone else’s. “Because metaphors have to make sense, man, they have to fit. People don’t look right at the sun, they shield their eyes from it. Plus, the sun is millions of miles away, completely unreachable and in fucking  _ space _ , while I, for the next hour, at least, am all yours. What a present for you.” He pokes at Roman’s leg and Roman bats his hand away, rubs at his eyes immediately after, like he’s fighting off a headache.

“I dunno, you  _ are  _ awful hard to look at. Sure I can’t regift you?” Dean takes it as his opportunity to hit Roman, now, jabbing at his stomach. Roman’s expecting something like that, though, catches his hand and holds it, this time, his long fingers wrapping around Dean’s fist and covering it.

He pulls back once, lightly, but Roman doesn’t drop his hand. Dean clears his throat a little, the feel of it tight and dusty in the dry air of the car. “Gotta warn me if you wanna play rock, paper, scissors, Rome. Win’s not a win if y’know what’s coming.” Roman makes a face that Dean hates, and there’s not too many of those faces that Roman has, so he recognizes them when he sees them. This one is a stone’s throw from disappointment, catching himself just before it continues down that road, the desire to hold on to Dean and the need to let him just be warring in his eyes. Dean swears if the next word out of Roman is his name, the single syllable shaky as it falls from his mouth, he’s going to use his free hand to steer them straight into the sandy ditch. For real, this time.

Instead, Roman drops his hand and his eyes, with it, and Dean swallows down this apology with all the others. It’s draining, sometimes, to keep up the resolve it takes to clench his teeth and refuse to feel bad for the times the two of them don’t align perfectly. But the sight of Roman retreating, sinking into his seat and staring ahead with those quiet eyes, while what he asked for, strikes Dean as something he could live with never seeing again.

“You think, uh? You didn’t use up all that magic energy and shit, right?” he asks. His voice doesn’t tremble but he feels like it wants to. “Think those stars got a wish somewhere for me?”

Roman looks back over, a lazy roll of his head to the side, and his smile, tired as it is, is radiant as anything Dean’s ever seen. He puts every one of those distant balls of gas to fucking shame. “Think they can manage. Go ahead, man. Try it. It’s refreshing.”

Dean looks out the window to humor him, up and out at the millions of faded lights hanging in the sky, and anything he could have asked for flies out of his head. It’s only a mantra of  _ I wish _ , _ I wish _ , _ I wish _ , over and over. He’s not afraid of a lot, but he’s suddenly terrified of making the wrong one and ruining everything.

“Got it?” Roman asks, the warm presence he’s always been at Dean’s side, but Dean can’t look at him now, has to turn away.

“Yeah,” he mutters, tugging at his cap, pulling it down lower over his face, eyes back on the road, his own words echoing in his head.  _ Metaphors have to fit _ . Dean’s eyes burn, and the air of the car is suddenly stifling, and Roman feels so distant and remote that Dean’s not sure if it’s Roman that’s moved away or if it’s him. He thinks he gets what people mean.

Yeah, there are some people you could wish on stars for. There are some people who are the star.

— 

“One room or two, tonight?”

That’s always the question, when they’re traveling together. They almost always have one booked before they arrive, and sometimes the situation doesn’t allow for another, but with how many hours the two of them spend together, it’s important to know when it’s time to be apart, for a while. Dean’s not feeling particularly ready to separate, for the night, wants to stay in Roman’s orbit for a little longer, but Roman’s definitely been in some kind of mood recently, with good reason. Whatever page he’s on, right now, Dean will get on board with him.

Roman hands his title to Dean rather than set it atop his bag, and Dean cradles the belt in his arms and tries not to look too questioning. “I got it,” he says with a sideways grin, hardly an answer at all, and heads around the corner and toward the desk, leaving Dean standing there. Dean glances down at the title held out armslength from his body, thinks about running fingers over the plates that Roman hasn’t taken off yet. He readjusts the belt to lay over one arm, one fingertip tracing a backwards R. He’s biased, he knows, but these name plates look better than any that have been fastened to the belt in recent memory. Dark and polished, gleaming under the flourescent lights, the black and gold is smooth under his hand, fits into the title as if it’s always been there, not like something that will eventually be removed and replaced when the time comes.

The way Roman warms his skin, so deep it floods under the surface, too rooted in him to be clawed out, now. Roman is too often considered stony, unmoveable, invincible, superhuman. Permanent, Dean prefers. He detests connecting himself, so certainly and completely, to anything — it burns, tying himself to a comet and being strung along for the ride — but he’s certain that the day Roman collapses is the day he will, too.

Roman steps back into his sight, and it’s night and day, the small corridor without him and his presence filling it, now. “All set,” he says, shoulders dropping a half inch with an exhale. The tension draining out of him, just that miniscule amount, is a flare that warms Dean’s chest.

“Good, get me the fuck into a bed.” It’s not meant to be an innuendo, and Roman doesn’t take it that way. Instead, when Dean shifts the weight of the belt, Roman reaches out to do something — take his hand, grab a bag, whatever — but his fingers end up wrapped around Dean’s wrist.

Dean was never an outstanding student, by any means, and he remembers so little of the things past teachers demanded he retained. One thing he does recall, though, is the first day of high school chemistry, watching the teacher whose name would never be important in the grand scheme of his life stroll into class, juggling a small bouquet of blue flowers and a large container of some clear liquid. “Science is beautiful,” is what she said, or some other bullshit, and plucked a single stem from the bunch, dropping it into the solution.

Some reaction was supposed to take place over the course of the class, something that was supposed to make the subject seem exciting and relevant, though few students bothered to do more than take notes and doodle in the margins of their handouts. But as she began explaining the progression of the course, Dean’s eyes stayed on the flower, watching as the blue slowly began to part, little yellow spots quietly bursting forth as if the sun itself was being born over and over again on the petals.

The class was fucking pointless, didn’t exactly leave a lasting impression, and Dean certainly never finds himself reflecting on his time spent in school in his daily life, for any reason. But, as Roman’s hand encircles his arm, the ridiculous image of that flower appears in his mind, brilliant specks of gold shattering the cold blue. 

Roman’s hands are half-tangled in the sun and he should leave marks, should burn where his fingertips linger. He doesn’t. But still, Dean almost says,  _ I think I’m gold under your hand _ . The idea that he could peel away Roman’s hand and find sunshine blooming on his skin is suddenly the safest thought in the world.

Safe had never been much of a priority, before. Even now, Dean looks at Roman and worries, down to his bones, that he won’t come out of this whole. Not that he ever expected, wanted to, in the first place. That was the entire appeal, in the beginning, after all — with the way they bit at each other with strong words and, occasionally, even stronger fists, surely the two of them were destined to tear one another apart.

It's not that Dean’s never been proven wrong, because that's certainly not true by any stretch of the imagination. But, Christ — Roman trails his fingers down and takes Dean’s hand in his, and — this is the first time he’s ever been happy about it.

“Think we can manage that.” They walk around the corner together, this time, to the elevator, Dean glancing down every few steps at where they’re joined. The hand-holding seems more personal, more intimate, now, than it did in the car, and Dean’s heart is thundering against his rib cage, but he doesn’t want to let go. It’s different, when he gets to hold back.

“Don’t want this back?” Dean asks, tilting his head toward the title he’s shouldered on the side opposite Roman. Dean’s own is tucked in amongst a layer of clothes, on the top of his bag, and the World Heavyweight Championship is heavier than he remembers it being. 

Roman glances over, a question in his eyes, and he smiles at the sight of Dean with the belt. “Nah,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hand once, quick, before he drops it to jab the elevator button. It’s easier to breathe, him standing a little further away, but the air feels a little foreign in his lungs. “You can hold onto it.”

Dean’s stomach warms with the knowledge that it’s not permission being given, but something else.

—

Roman dropped his bags and immediately fell, face first, into the bed, but Dean, for all his grouching, wasn’t ready to actually sleep. There’s a small balcony off the room, though, a little patio that once upon a time would have his fingers itching to grab a cigarette. He stands out there on it, losing track of time, for a while, flicking the cheap little lighter he carries on and off, over and over again.

The stars aren’t as clear, as easy to make out here as they were on the road, but there’s something that could be the Big Dipper hanging high overhead, and a line of three that he knows make up Orion’s belt, though he doesn’t know how far or in which directions the rest of the hunter stretches. Dean sighs, starts the flame again and holds it for a little bit, scanning for the best one. The brightest.

He settles on one that looks good enough — the North Star, maybe, he thinks you’re supposed to be able to see that all the time and from anywhere — and takes a deep breath, letting the light in his hand die out once more.

_ I wish _ — 

“You know,” he hears a voice from behind him, Roman sliding the balcony door shut as he exits the room and enters Dean’s atmosphere. He doesn't continue the thought, though, just sidles up to the railing and stands next to Dean, hip cocked against the bars to balance himself.

“Mm. Know a lot, Rome. Gotta be more specific.”

Roman laughs, just a light chuckle, an acknowledgement rather than teasing. His eyes, heavy-lidded and darkly underlined, flicker down to the cut on Dean’s lip, the scab of dried blood that's formed over the delicate skin, and for the time it takes to blink, he thinks Roman is going to kiss him.

Instead, his glance returns to Dean's eyes. “I read somewhere that pure iron only comes from fusion in stars.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear — the bun on the back of his head is lopsided and bed-mussed, there's an imprint of a creased sheet stretching from his nose up the entire length of his cheekbone — and crosses his arms across his chest. Dean runs his tongue over the cut, just refraining from biting down and opening it again. His face feels like it’s burning off and he’s never been so grateful for the low light. He’s given up on wondering how Roman knows. He just does. “Might be bullshit. But, still, thought that’s something you’d li—”

Dean kisses him instead.

It’s nearly gentle, the way Roman pushes back against him, but he can feel the sharp pain anyway. Roman’s touching the side of his face when they separate, and when Dean licks at his lip again, that metallic taste is back, a hint of it spread over Roman’s mouth as well. He might reconsider — maybe iron isn’t so bad.

“Come get some sleep,” Roman says, that voice that’s half request, half command, and Dean gives a lazy roll of his shoulders in response, taps the fingers of one hand against the railing for the sound, pockets his lighter once more.

“Soon, yeah,” he nods, flicking his chin toward the door, and that’s good enough for Roman, who turns and slinks back inside to bury his face into the bedsheets once more. Dean takes a deep breath when the door closes behind him, lets it out and glances back up at the sky again. No lamps are on in the room, but it feels brighter, more inviting. Somewhere he’d rather be.

Dean turns his back to the stars, reentering the room and stripping off most of his clothes, sliding into the bed. He doesn’t touch Roman, but the distance between them doesn’t feel quite so insurmountable now.

“Make that wish?” Roman mumbles, turning toward him just enough that he’s not eating pillow as he speaks. It’s something he does nearly every night — the words may be different, but the feeling the sight, the sound of his voice, elicit in Dean still hasn’t changed — and it’s a fucking miracle, Dean thinks, that he’s traveled millions of miles and still managed to find his way here.

Every bed is home, and in that same regard none of them are, but his bones are always more rested, more settled, when they’re lying next to Roman. “I tell you, it won’t come true,” he slurs, the length of the day finally weighing heavy, and when Roman laughs, illuminating the dark of the room, and presses a kiss to the side of his head, Dean’s eyes slide closed and he feels sunshine on his skin.


	7. a menace in my bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can get used to the strangest things.
> 
> (jon moxley/leakee)

“Don’t smoke in bed.”

 

More than a sliver of light is entering through the open blinds, illuminating the wrinkled, hastily pulled up sheets and the expanse of uncovered skin, and Moxley looks at him where he plays around on his phone, bored, hair now just long enough to hang in his eyes. Probably just because he knows Leakee hates that, hates when he can't see them—it's always to his advantage to know where Mox is looking, after all, all the better to know where he's coming from. At least, he wouldn't put it past the other man—Leakee can't say he takes Moxley’s opinions under consideration much, if at all, but Jon’s brain works more than a little differently.

 

“Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but, the lit cigarette finding its way back to his mouth once more.

 

This is something of a ritual, for them, now. From the moment the lighter appeared in his fingers, they both knew Leakee would complain, just like they both knew Moxley would ignore him. The first time, maybe Leakee’s voice had been stronger, back when he still had some semblance of self respect, because Moxley had glanced at him, eyes wider than he probably wanted them to be, had hesitated for the briefest of moments before refusing.

 

Leakee would never call him soft—all that would earn him is the title of liar and a fist square in the jaw—but Moxley is something different in his sated satisfaction. Quiet, that razor sharp bloodlust calmed, settled for a moment, each line of his body languid as he lounges—still naked, still covered in the remnants of his orgasm the sloppy, half-assed pass of kleenex didn’t remove—atop the bedsheets, those long legs crossed at the ankles and his free hand resting over the top of his abdomen, just below his sternum. It’s calm, would be serene if it were anyone else he were here with.

 

Still.

 

This part never lasts long.

 

They’ll pass through the eye of the storm, and one will say something to the other that might even mean nothing, but everything becomes something with them, eventually. He doesn’t know how long it will take until it happens. He’s not even dreading it, truthfully, because it’s just how things are between them—they’ll fall out with ferocity, intensely, a lull in the middle, then collide violently once more, this moment of peace his reward for putting up with it all, and it’s frustrating and exhausting but he misses the loud points when too much time passes in between.

 

His own thoughts don't make any sense. It's an all too familiar feeling, since they started whatever this is.

  
  
  


Next to him, Moxley sucks in a deep lungful, puckers his lips and makes what Leakee can only assume is an attempt at a smoke ring. He misses the mark by a long shot, the foggy wisps leaving his mouth casting the barest trace of a shadow against the wall. Leakee snorts at his failure, and Mox’s eyes snap to him once more, as if the other man was unaware he was being watched. There’s a beat or two of silence where he just stares, looking back at Leakee, before something shifts in his face and he lets out a loud crow of laughter, the obnoxious sound shaking some piece of Leakee back into place.

 

Normally he doesn't push too hard, because, if he's honest, neither laundry detergent or Febreeze ever quite get the scent out—that offensive, overpowering smell encompasses and dominates all others in its vicinity, lingers on the pillows, the walls, his own hair—and Leakee has grown accustomed to it after this long. 

 

How anyone can put up with something so disgusting is beyond him. He certainly never meant for it to happen. He never woke up one day and decided to notice the difference between the stale, musty stench forever lodged in the molecules of the fabric and the sharp, acrid odor of it curling out of Mox’s mouth. He never asked for the odd, heavy feeling in the back of his throat when, in the middle of one of Moxley’s hissing, ranting tirades, for once not aimed at Leakee, he hauled Jon in for a kiss under guise of shutting him up and received both a glancing burn as the stub caught his arm and the knowledge that he doesn't mind the taste of fresh tobacco smoke—one left a mark, and the other, well. Burns heal.

 

The thing is, it happened anyway.

 

“If you leave that shitty smell on the sheets when you go, don't expect an invitation again.”

 

The grin he gives Leakee isn’t soft, either— it’s something he doesn’t have a word for, because Mox may be sticking around, but he’s surely not  _ fond  _ of anyone, present company included. “I'm heartbroken, sweetheart.”

 

It’s an empty threat, to be sure, and they both know that, as well, but the response still stings, even unintentionally. It calls to reminder a time not too far prior—Mox had disappeared for nearly two weeks without so much as a word, and Leakee hadn't been concerned, of course, but after a couple days he did leave a few voicemails demanding the other man return the movie he stole. There was no one else who’d been over to have taken it, and Leakee wouldn’t have called at all, but he really wanted to watch Michael Corleone’s rise to power for the hundredth time. The first message had been quick and casual, asking as kindly as he could muster. Having heard nothing almost a week later, the second one was much more demanding. By the third time he called, Leakee listened carefully to the prerecorded message, making sure the number the automated voice recited was indeed the one belonging to the man he was trying to reach, despite the fact that it was saved in his own phone under the same incorrect and offensive name as always, just in case anyone happened to glance through his contacts and decide to wonder just why he had Jon Moxley on speed dial.

 

That message had been scathing.

 

That very night, Mox had shown up on his doorstep, looking like he washed straight out of the gutter with the heavy rain matting his hair down, his teeth clenched and not quite meeting Leakee’s stare. Empty handed. Leakee scowled, told him to get out of the soaked clothes before he ruined the damn carpet. It wasn’t until his shirt was removed—discarded on the floor, wasn’t that just like Jon— that he saw the blue-green skin, yellowed just around the edges, spanning the entire length of Mox’s ribs and twisting around his back, too, the way his body unconsciously curled to protect that side. When Leakee finally glanced back up and caught his eyes, that same aging bruise was circling one of them and spread across the edge of his cheekbone, a few nearly healed cuts right over the top of it. That goddamn hair hiding it, always in his face.

 

“Why’re you starin’?” Mox had mumbled. “Jealous I got some you didn’t put on me? Kinky,” but it lacked a lot of the challenging playfulness Leakee had come to expect, and when he reached out to push the bangs hanging over Jon’s eyes away, Mox grabbed his hand as if to throw it right back at him. Leakee was already braced for a fight. Instead, Mox placed Leakee’s palm up against the warmth of his cheek, the one that looked like it had been through hell, and the sound he made wasn’t exactly a sigh but Leakee didn’t have a word for it—doesn’t have a lot of words for Mox—and some unknown feeling shifted strangely inside him.

 

Certainly felt like something breaking in his chest.

 

They didn’t talk about it then, and they haven’t now. It’ll just be another one of those moments that will hopefully fade from both of their memories down the road, neither wanting to remember themselves—or, for that matter, the other—appearing so vulnerable.

 

Leakee stares back at Moxley, doesn’t return the grin. “Not now, you aren’t, but you will be,” he states, mostly provoking, but deep down, he’s more sure of the statement than he’s ever been.

 

Mox, for his part, cackles again and gets up out of bed, opening the window just enough to toss what’s left of his cigarette out. There’s half a bite mark visible from behind, angry red right over the meat of his shoulder, but that imprint will fade, too, just like the bruising did, and the split knuckles before that, and Leakee finds himself needlessly jealous that Mox leaves traces of himself behind so effortlessly while he himself is so inherently unmarkable.

 

Mox is watching something out the window, something that has him grumbling under his breath, and Leakee chuckles at him. He glances back over his shoulder, through that hair, and there’s that smile again, the one that definitely isn’t affectionate but—isn’t not, either—and Leakee’s thumb hovers over the word ‘jackass’ in his phone before he deletes it, types ‘Mox’ quickly and discreetly before he can think better of it and stashes the thing on his bedside table.

 

Moxley climbs back onto the mattress, moves to pull the sheets up and over him, as well, but Leakee just raises an eyebrow and looks at the mess still covering his stomach. “Don’t even think about it. Not until you clean up.”

 

Moxley frowns, at that, before one corner of his mouth starts slowly pulling upward. He drags a finger through one of the few spots of come that hasn’t already dried against his skin—flaking all over the bed, now,  _ every  _ part of him is always getting  _ everywhere _ —and brings it to his mouth, sucking it clean. Leakee narrows his eyes at him, and when Mox repeats the motion, offering a sample to Leakee, this time, he heaves the most put upon sigh he can dredge up and lifts the edge of the cover, allowing room for Jon to slink below it and press every inch of his sweat and filth up against him, one leg wrapping up and over his own.

  
How anyone can put up with something so disgusting is beyond him, but it happened anyway.


	8. there is a light that never goes out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has to be an achievement to commemorate, but Dean makes celebration half the fun. (nsfw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little (lot) on the late side, but I was thinking about this a lot last night.

There are sparks on Roman's tongue. He hasn't left the ring, hasn't set foot outside it, yet, but the air around him is buzzing with sound and his bones are vibrating under his skin and he feels electric, like if he touched anyone right now he'd short circuit, shock them.

That's not his first thought, when he sees Jimmy and Jey and Dean, stumbling over their own feet on the way to get to him — no, that's more an overwhelming sense of joy and peace, like the universe has shifted into alignment, like something's finally slotted into place in his chest, followed by a quick flare of bittersweet melancholy that he shoves away as he jumps down from the turnbuckle (god, it seems like an eternity, forever, since it was him and Dean and Seth, tripping over each other to get to this ring) — but it does flash through his mind in the split second between empty arms and full, when Dean throws himself into Roman without a care in the world. Roman flings one arm out to catch him on instinct, half expecting him to jerk and twitch, jump back with a shout, but Dean melts into him and the twins follow, forming a circle around him. There's a flare in his chest, a feeling like something too big held inside him, trying to find any path, any way to jump out.

He's up on shoulders and holding out the title and Dean is pointing at him, over and over (all roads lead to Rome, he thinks, and if his laugh at that is a little hysterical, he thinks he can be forgiven) and there’s a speech that flies out of his mouth without traveling through his head and the crowd is deafening and all too soon it’s time to step out from between the ropes. Roman has never existed as champion outside of this ring; his feet are stuck to the mat and if he moves a muscle to roll out he’s worried he’ll lose that grounding force and everything will come rushing out all at once.

But nothing happens, when his feet hit the floor; there's no sudden dispelling of this energy, no decrease in the way his hands are shaking, and not one single person steps in his path to say ‘almost, Roman, but you forgot just one thing’. Nothing changes, except that everything's changed, the world’s turned upside down and his head’s not screwed on quite right and the belt over his shoulder, it's still there, it's coming with him.

The four of them all walk to the back, together, and they're not even through the curtain when Dean plasters himself to Roman's side. Roman wraps an arm around him, cutting that space out of his body for Dean. Jimmy reaches out and shakes his opposite shoulder, the one on which the title is resting, and they're both jostled with the force of it, but Roman doesn't let go, just laughs along with them all.

“Uce, look at you! Big man on campus!” Jimmy’s always had a way of smiling so big his own face can’t hold it all, and Roman’s cheeks hurt from picking up the extra, but he can’t stop grinning as wide as his mouth will allow.

“Man, you made it! Finally!” Jey adds, bumping his shoulder up against Roman’s, who drives his own back into him with a scoff. There’s a small group gathering on down the hallway, not too far from them, and Roman concentrates on radiating a private, stay away vibe as best he can. This is his moment, his time, and, for now, these are the people he wants to spend it with. Dean pulls away from his side, shakes his arm that was pressed into Roman’s body out a bit. Roman immediately wants to pull him back in, but it’s always best to let him do his own thing. Dean never puts himself anywhere he doesn’t want to be, not these days, not anymore, and Roman will wait patiently until he’s that place once more. “How you gonna celebrate, huh?”

That’s not something Roman had begun to consider, yet — he’s still floating, grounded only by their hands against him and the weight of the gold he’s carrying. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jimmy’s eyes dart past him and then his smile is smaller, something a little more smug and knowing. “Think he’s got it covered, bro.” Jimmy’s tapping Jey’s shoulder, now, leading him away, and they’re both walking backwards down the hallway when Jey calls back, “Catch you later, uce! Congrats!” and the two of them disappear around a corner.

He isn’t sure what just happened. When he turns to look at Dean, who’s wrapping an arm around his shoulders, maybe it’s all Roman’s imagination, but his face looks a little too innocent. Everything about it is a little too wide, a little too open.

“Did you just chase my cousins away for us to have celebratory sex? Is that really a thing you just did?” Roman is breathless and panting, and it’s partly still from the adrenaline of the match but mostly not. He’d thought there were stars in Dean’s eyes, before, but the way he’s looking at Roman, now, there are whole galaxies shining back, auroras — lights that are so far beyond Roman’s reach that he couldn’t have imagined them, couldn’t dream up something like that — and Dean’s hands keep Roman’s body in place but when Dean looks at him, Roman’s head feels something like it’s floating in outer space. 

Dean scowls at him, a simultaneous softness around his eyes; he looks all at once offended and contrite. There were so many things Roman never thought a human face could do, before he met Dean. “I did no such thing,” he says, not sounding half as winded as Roman is, and those sparks are back, a circuit of electric energy running down both arms and through his legs and generating heat in his chest. Dean’s head is pressed into his shoulder, face tucked away and hidden against his neck, and when breath hits the delicate skin of his throat and Roman shivers, it certainly isn’t from cold. “But if I did. That something you would want to do?”

Dean always asks questions like he already knows the answers. You have to be listening very carefully to hear the doubt creeping in along the edges. Someday, Roman hopes it will be absent altogether. Until then, well. He has a lot of patience. A folding chair catches his eye and he resists the urge to shake his head. For the most part.

“Maybe,” he tells the mop of shaggy hair and the body connected to it, trying to sink into him. Roman ruffles it, gently, before pressing a kiss there, and Dean lifts his head to smile at him, but that’s a question, too. Jimmy and Jey will still be there tomorrow, or even later tonight, ready to celebrate, if they’d rather wait. “Right now, I just want to get some beers with my best friend.”

Dean nods in agreement, head shaking with a pensive look in his eye, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “Think we can manage that,” he says. It’s still a ridiculous thrill, even after all this time, to hear Dean refer to them as a we. Two years ago, the word would have been tossed out with biting condescension, if it were spoken at all. Roman’s entire body is buzzing, again, humming out the melody of a song, and Dean backs up, head still nodding, dances away like he knows the tune.

It’s impossible to buy alcohol at half past midnight on a Monday, Dean announces, sliding back into the seat of the car after their third unsuccessful stop. He doesn’t look put out, though, just smiles at Roman, who grins back and watches Dean pull out his phone and dial a number. By one, the four of them are all shoved into a single tiny hotel room, him and Dean and Jimmy and Jey, a case of PBR sitting torn open on the desk. Beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes.

The twins are loud and messy, having started the party before Dean and Roman made it back, clanging cans together and watching liquid crest over the metal rims and onto their hands, dripping onto the floor. Any other night, Roman would be complaining about the incidentals charge they'll be adding to his bill, but this is no normal night. Dean gets loud, too, talking over their raucous laughter, a pitch perfect impression of Vincent K. McMahon himself spilling from his lips, and animatedly reenacts Roman superman punching him in the face, first by himself, then again with Jimmy jumping in to play the role of Roman.

They all dissolve into nothing more than a fit of giggles, at that, Roman clenching his side as it cramps. There's a warmth in his chest that is flooding out to his fingers, that tingling returning but softer, now, watching his family happy and glowing, Dean an unquestioned part of it. It's overwhelming, how much has changed in four short years.

The noise drifting out of their room creates a revolving door, of sorts, various superstars and divas knocking to see what all the fuss is about. This celebration, Roman is more than willing to let people join — the party grows but the beer can't hold up, not until someone arrives brandishing a bottle of tequila in one hand, vodka in the other. He makes a point of creating a wall with his body when he sees the flash in Jey’s eyes at that.

At some point, the television starts up in the background, and a replay on some sports program is showing the end of Roman’s match. Jimmy jumps up on the bed, bouncing, quiets everyone down to watch, again, and Roman feels his whole face flush when their crowd erupts again at the conclusion of the three count. Dean is at his side in an instant, like he's been there the whole time — he has, hasn't he, whenever Roman's asked and, sometimes, when he hasn't — head down to press his lips into the back of Roman's shoulder blade, and he's _scorching_ , even through the fabric of the tank top separating them.

The whole thing goes on longer than it had any right to, probably. Roman is surprised it takes until two-thirty before security is knocking at the door, noise complaints brandished against them, and he stands at the door, ushering everyone out to a chorus of high fives and congratulations and promises for a drink tomorrow night, whatever town they're in. The four of them that started this are the last ones there, Naomi with them, and hugs are exchanged before she's herding the twins out the door, the two of them shuffling in their inebriation toward their rooms. “You the king, uce!” Jimmy shouts back, hand raised and shaking in a hang loose motion. Roman shushes him from down the hallway, smiling as Naomi does the same.

“Every damn time, I swear—” he hears her voice trailing off as the door swings shut, and then their party is down to two.

Those blue eyes on him, no other distractions, brings to memory the charge Roman's felt all night. It's outside his body too, now, hanging heavy in the air between them. Roman feels pinned to the wall under the weight of it, watching Dean watching him. “So, we're a day late, but. What kind of celebration did you have in mind, exactly?”

Dean has a look on his face, lost and dreamy, like he's half in this moment and half five steps ahead. It's the sort of thing he'd never show anyone else, and the air becomes even harder to breathe than it had been. “Oh, I got plans,” he drawls, strutting toward Roman with a slow swagger, like they have all the time in the world. Roman desperately wants to believe they do.

“You do, do you?” he asks, to cover his laugh at how ridiculous Dean looks, thumbs hooked through his belt loops and that deliberate walk, like he's just stepped out of some old western movie, all dull color and lighting that could never capture his vibrancy. Dean cocks a sly smile, looks like he should be running fingers over the rim of JBL’s hat. Roman grins wide, makes a note to remember to tell him that, later.

“Oh, you know,” he says, the hint of a shrug, closing the gap between them, and then they're kissing, finally, what Roman feels like has been a long time coming. Dean is a slow burn, the sort of fever Roman has learned to live with. Even now, his hands are warming Roman’s sides. Dean is still a little stiff, something about the crowd they had here, probably, but he relaxes as soon as his skin touches Roman’s, palms large and sure where he's pushed the shirt up, body so tight against him that the metal teeth of his jacket zipper are digging into Roman's chest, but Roman can’t feel anything except that heat, the scorching press of Dean branding himself into Roman, and he can’t get close enough.

“Damn,” he says, when Dean rips his mouth away to nip at the underside of his jaw, and even that one syllable comes out choked and broken — it’s hard, it’s so difficult to concentrate on anything other than the sensation of Dean pressed against him, how Dean has melded them together and they’re both humming with that energy, now, even with their feet firmly planted in place. “Look good, champ.”

Something _burns_ through Dean’s eyes at that, flame and heat flickering through the blue, and he nearly tears Roman out of his shirt trying to get it off. “You should have it on,” Dean says around a well placed bite to his arm, one that makes Roman hiss in a sharp breath. “That and only that.” Roman wonders if he's remembering that night in Texas six months ago, too, when the air was thick and humid but they were hotter, burning brighter than the city lights pouring in through the window. Dean is always the brightest thing in any room.

“You too,” he replies, unable to form many more words than that. He manages the strength to walk Dean back toward the bed, pushing him back onto it, but Dean grabs his arms at the last second, pulling Roman down with him. Their foreheads knock together when Roman falls, unable to catch himself in time, but they're both laughing as their mouths find each other's again. They can't keep the kiss up, though, lips pulling back too tightly in humor, and Roman settles for sitting up, letting Dean pull his own jacket off and sliding the other one — and the shirt underneath it, there's always so many layers to cut through, getting to Dean, stripping off all that covering to get to the white-hot live wire underneath — over his head, leaving them both shirtless.

They try again, lips moving lazily against each other's, the sound of Dean’s low laughter still echoing in his ears. Dean is the one who surges up, deepens the kiss, languid open mouths with just a hint of tongue, but when his hands trail down to hold Roman's waist, it's Roman that quickens the pace, frantic at the simple intimacy of Dean’s fingers curled around his sides and the rush of light it sends through his brain. Suddenly, skin on skin isn't enough — or it's too much, Dean has never been too little for him, in any way — and Roman curls two fingers around and under the top of his jeans, brushing over the deep v of Dean's hip, inching closer to the bulge straining against the denim.

The sudden breath he sucks in at the movement forces them to break apart again. Roman repeats it, watches as the easy slide of his fingers create the slightest tremors that spread through Dean's body. Shocks, he thinks — maybe that's not such a bad thing, after all.

“Shit,” Dean breathes out under him, grinding up for friction that Roman's not ready to give just yet. Whatever slow patience he's carried with him thus far is evaporating under their combined heat. One of his hands unabashedly gropes Roman's cock through the fabric of his pants, and Roman moans at the feeling. “Stop your fuckin’ teasing and get the damn belts.”

“So demanding,” Roman chastises softly, taking the hand that was rubbing at skin he hasn't revealed yet and tipping Dean's chin at a better angle. He kisses him again, thoroughly, enough to steal the panting breath from his lungs before he moves again.

When he does, Roman gets up to grab their titles, lays his on the bed and Dean’s over his chest, almost the way it would fall were he carrying it around. He looks amazing, in gold, glowing and laugh lines and nothing but smiles up at Roman. Roman forgot just how good.

His mouth is dry, all the moisture sweating out through his palms. There's something about Dean that calms Roman and sets him on edge, all at the same time. It's always been that way, as far back as he can remember, with them. He doesn't miss the days when the scales used to tip more toward annoyance than comfort, but he likes the feeling. It's not weird or uncomfortable. It's just Dean.

Roman concentrates on strapping the belt around him, the bottom falling below the waist of his pants. When he looks up, again, Dean’s pushed himself up onto his knees, white leather of the title clasped and slung around him like an oversized necklace while he works on the button of his pants, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth just the tiniest bit. Roman doesn't know how to classify the sudden rush of affection that fills his chest. It's a hot air balloon feeling, his heart light enough to float right up, and it does, pouring out of him in laughter.

Dean blinks at him, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed, panting. It's a little too much like the expression he wears whenever he takes a particularly rough bump, nearly enough to sober Roman entirely. “What's so funny?” he asks, all focus on Roman now, hands resting on the waist of his forgotten jeans. Roman thinks he should probably stop laughing, stop giving Dean the impression that he's laughing _at him_ , that something about him is wrong, but he can't stop and he doesn't know what he's laughing at anyway, other than how the world is so big and there are billions of other people he could be here with and somehow, despite everything, he's found, he gets to have, the one person he wants.

“Just c’mere,” he gets out through the grin stretched wide across his face. Dean watches him for a few seconds, long enough that Roman feels his heart beat in his throat four times, once for each of the titles they've held between them, and then a smile starts to play on his own face right before he walks on his knees to get to Roman.

Leaning down just enough to bring their foreheads together, Roman rests his head against Dean's. He smells like cheap beer and the spice of a tequila chaser, like worn in leather and the hazy grey air before a storm, humming with potential and so thick you can all but taste it. He doesn't make a move to kiss him, again, and Dean doesn't close that tiny distance either. They just stare into each other's eyes, breathing the same air, until Roman feels dizzy and cross-eyed and has to close his, hands wandering down to finish the job that Dean's started.

Their chests are just close enough for the belt looped around Dean's neck to be pressed between them uncomfortably, but Dean's not complaining, and after Roman pushes his jeans and underwear down his hips, he hooks his arms around Dean and unbuckles the title. Roman takes just a moment to back up, run greedy hands over it — wanting, yes, but for something else — before he brings it back to Dean, fastening it around the slim cut of his waist. He smoothes the front of the belt, the heavy plate, flush to Dean’s stomach, fingers drifting across the skin bordering the top of it. Dean breathes in and out slowly, shaky in the otherwise silent room.

“You good?” Roman whispers into the space between them. Dean is good at voicing when he isn’t, more so than he’s ever been, but Roman can’t help but check in from time to time, make sure he hasn’t lost him along the way. There’s a short pause, and then Dean laughs once, quick and sharp, crackling from the back of his throat. It reminds Roman of a tree split by a bolt of lightning.

“Not sure I’ve ever been better.” His eyes are rough and a little wicked, just like the axis of his mouth, and bright, so bright — the suns hidden in them haven’t dimmed at all, they’re threatening to explode out of him in a supernova, and Roman can’t _not_ be kissing him anymore.

He goes right and Dean goes left, and they slide into place as easily as if it was something they meant to do all along. Dean’s hands are scrambling at the fly of his pants, pushing them down Roman’s hips, and his voice is coarse and wet when he rasps, “Trade places with me.”

Roman climbs onto the bed instantly, kicking off the fabric caught around his ankles. Next to him, Dean pauses for an instant, blinking in surprise, and Roman’s chest has just enough time to catch on something sharp and painful before that troublemaker’s grin from before returns and he pushes up to stand where Roman just did.

He doesn’t know what to expect, exactly, but when Dean sinks down, knees pressed into alcohol soaked carpet, Roman’s thighs start trembling in anticipation. Dean is normally one to dive right in, nothing held back, but he takes his time, now, tracing around the edges of gold in front of him. His focus is completely on the belt, for a good long while, until he stares up at Roman with wide, wide eyes, mouth parted and hanging open. Roman is choking on something heavy in his chest as he reaches out, smooths back the hair dangling in front of his face. Dean’s body shudders under his hand.

“You’re—you’re somethin’ else, y’know, Rome?” Fingers wrap loosely around him, fist forming to stroke him a few times, and his hips twitch forward as Dean flattens his tongue to the underside of his cock, giving a long lick before closing his mouth around Roman.

The first time this happened, Roman had been woefully unprepared. Dean’s mouth has always been something to take notice of, but in this way, it’s a revelation. The whole world seems smaller yet simultaneously ever expanding with the heat of Dean surrounding him, tongue and hands near perfect every single time. Roman can’t help but thrust a little more roughly than he should. “Sorry,” he’s already apologizing as Dean pulls off.

The leather is sticking to the sweat sliding down his back, too hot with the way it doesn’t hang loose off him like it did on Dean, but that’s all forgotten when Dean gasps out, “Fuck my face.”

Roman doesn’t waste time asking if he’s sure — Dean’s demands, even when questioned, are never waylaid — just groans and lines himself back up, pushing back into Dean’s waiting mouth. Even like this, he’s never one to just be used, adjusting the suction he’s creating as he goes, lips shining with the saliva leaking out. Roman threads fingers through his hair, gently enough not to pull him forward, trying hard not to hold him in place, never to hold him in place. “God, Dean. You’re good. You’re so good.” His eyes don’t miss the way Dean’s slide closed at that, the way his head pulls back but pushes up into Roman’s palm all the same. “You’re incredible.”

Dean’s throat is going lax as his breathing deepens, wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes — Roman’s not sure if it’s from the raw pain in Dean’s throat or the words he can’t seem, doesn’t want, to hold back — and Roman pushes in further, faster, Dean moaning around him, stroking his own cock where it stands out between the bottom of his title and the gape of his half-removed pants. The sight is something Roman can’t think about too much, Dean getting off on being used to get _him_ off, and one thrust is a little too hard, the dull thud of metal against bone overcoming the rush of blood in his ears as the plate of the belt hits Dean in the forehead.

Dean pulls back despite the grip Roman still has on his hair, blinking away a different sort of daze from his eyes. “Are you—” Roman starts to ask him, but then Dean’s laughing, a low, gravelly roll that quickly turns high pitched and cackly, and when a few tears escape him, Roman joins in.

“I’m bein’ nice to you—and you’re gonna turn ‘round—and gimme a concussion—with your dick?” The words are broken apart, wheezed out between the shake of his shoulders, and Roman breaks into fresh peals at them, his black and blue side hurting from how he’s crunched in half.

He wants to stick his head out the window, hang his body over the edge and shout into the night. There's always a part of him that feels that way around Dean, reckless and wild and free, but it's bigger, now, so much more. How could anyone be further off the ground than the two of them, now? This is the peak, Roman knows — the two of them, they're on top of the world.

“Spear,” he sobs out, and Dean groans through his own laughter. It stretches on for several minutes, each calming down before looking at the other and bursting into hysterics all over again. By the time they’ve quieted, finally, Roman’s whole body aches, mouth and throat sore — he can only imagine how Dean feels — and it’s nearly three-thirty in the morning.

“God, I’m tired,” Dean echoes his sentiments, less standing and more slithering up onto the bed, moving his hips until he can push his jeans all the way off, groaning as he shifts to remove the belt that has sunk low on his hips. Roman barely remembers to do the same, every limb of his body too heavy to seek out sleeping clothes. He’s barely able to let one arm fall to the side, and Dean moves his jaw to crack it before rolling to crush his face into the edge of Roman's chest.

His fingers trace a lazy pattern across Dean’s back, vestiges of that electric feeling darting out between the planes of his shoulder blades, but it’s settled, for now, a low hum at ease. “Raincheck, for sure.”

“Mmphf,” is the mumble of approval that earns, Dean still hot against him, and Roman closes his eyes, concentrates on matching his breathing to the puffs of air tickling his skin. It’s just enough to make his hair stand on end.


End file.
